


Thorns

by glim



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-22
Updated: 2010-03-22
Packaged: 2017-10-08 06:03:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glim/pseuds/glim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It will be painful, and Morgana will not be afraid, for she has stopped the fear of self that used to choke her and made her unable to speak of the mercurial radiance that lights her senses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thorns

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the International Day of Femslash Merlin Kinkmeme 2009.

"Take this," she says, and hands Morgana a cup filled with blood-red, blood-thick liquid. "You don't need to drink it; just touch it to your tongue."   Morgana stares into the cup and feels it fluctuate warm-cold-warm against her fingers. "What does it taste like?"

"Like death. Like death and life, and the greatest, most frightening magic possible." She is beautiful, dangerous and with a quick, sharp way about her that makes Morgana want to catch her in the palm of her hand. "What's the matter? Are you sacred you won't be able to hold such magic inside you?"

Morgana drinks.

*

"Take this," she says, and hands Morgana a flower with perfect white petals and waxy green leaves, a row of pinprick thorns down the length of its stem.

Morgana stares at the flower and feels it run smooth-sharp-smooth against her fingers. "What does it smell like?"

"Like the earth. Like the rotting of all bodies that fall to the earth and the flourishing of all things that spring from the same ground." Her eyes are the blue of sea and sky, of storms and clear mornings, the indiscernible distance of the horizon at twilight. "It's already yours, seer."

Morgana breathes.

*

"Take this," she says, and hands Morgana a conch, twisting on itself, wandering into itself endlessly, the edges of the shell both fragile and jagged.

Morgana stares at the shell and feels it turn in her hand, an endless process of doing and undoing itself. "What will it sound like?"

"Like the thrum of your blood in your veins when you lay head on your arms to sleep. Like the prick of desire and the fear of dying." Her gaze reaches somewhere past Morgana, seems to seize something in the distance, and then flickers back. "Make your decision."

Morgana listens.

*

"Take this," she says, and waves her hand over the surface of the cup so its surface changes from red to blue to the clearest silver. "Gaze deeply, as if drinking."

Morgana takes the cup back and stares again, the metal like ice against her skin. "What will it look like?"

"Like everything you've ever wished for and everything you've thought time could never comprehend." Her eyes meet Morgana's before she gazes down at the glassy surface, her body tense, waiting to meet them again in the reflection. "You've already seen it all unfold, in pictures and dreams."

Morgana looks.

*

"Take this," she says, and offers her hand, palm up, blue veins against pale skin, life-blood and death-wish coursing underneath her fair skin.

Morgana stares at her hand and this time, she doesn't voice the question that her lips half-form.

It will feel like tumbling into the depths of unknown oceans and heavens, like the heady scent of summer flowers and the banquet hall closed against the winter winds, like the taste of honey on her tongue and the sharpest sting of thorns against her breast, like the rush of magic through her sleeping body that startles her awake and pushes blood and breath too quickly, too suddenly, too forcefully through her body.

It will be like desire, ever unfulfilled, ever yearning, the thrust of tongues and fingers into bodies, between lips. She will feel it in her heart and her womb, the way magic and power flare, and how she will both seduce and be seduced, strangely complete. They will make love, create it from the very dirt that scratches against their nails and the wind that tears across their skin and screams against the sky.

It will be painful, and Morgana will not be afraid, for she has stopped the fear of self that used to choke her and made her unable to speak of the mercurial radiance that lights her senses.

"We are not the same, but like enough," she suggests.

Morgana takes her hand, touches the palm to her lips, licks the end of her tongue against skin to taste blood and earth, inhales the scent of sky and forest and lightening, hears the sigh break from her own lips, and glances up. "Nimueh," she murmurs, and catches her by the wrist, not gentle, and offers her a vision of a world already broken, "take this."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Thorns](https://archiveofourown.org/works/969928) by [Chestnut_filly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chestnut_filly/pseuds/Chestnut_filly)




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